


Letters to Irma

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Drama, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/418124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been rummaging through one of Winnebago's cupboards when he'd found it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Letters to Irma

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Warnings: This is my fill response to prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: "What the group finds while clearing out Dale's personal possessions." - Rated for: adult language, aftermath of canon character death, and adult situations.

He'd been rummaging through one of the Winnebago's cupboards when he'd found it. On the hunt for a spare roll of duct tape and that pair of jeweler's pliers he was sure he'd seen in one of the drawers. Vaguely thinking about reinforcing the feathers on his handmade arrows with some of the thin copper filling he'd found in the tool box when his hand brushed across it.

He sank down on his haunches in the narrow space. Spine practically crushed against the tiny stove as his grimy hands dug deep into the chaos and pried it out. He cocked his head and stared. It was one of those old cigar cases. The ones with the neat flip-top lids and age yellowed advertisements that portrayed half naked women in luaus, exotic grass skirts, and smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes. It reminded him of the one his Pa used to keep on his workbench back in the day, jammed full of bent nails, spare screws, and the occasional shotgun shell thrown in for flavor.

A noise from outside caused him to look up, eyes narrowing into a half conscious squint as the voices of Lori and Carl floated in through the half open door. He rose with a grunt, feeling the muscles in his thighs burn at the abuse as he rolled the stiffness from his shoulders. And while he couldn't quite explain why, he found himself crossing over to the door and slamming it closed. Retreating back to the small table and cushioned bench, wiping his dirty palms on one of the old man's rags as he sunk down across the threadbare cushions and flipped open the lid.

But instead of spare bullets, screws, or even that elusive set of pliers, the box was filled to the brim with an untidy bundle of mismatched papers and a few thrift store knickknacks. - He curled his lip, gnawing on the inside of his cheek with undisguised frustration as he sifted through a few of the papers.

Any other day he'd say it was a bunch of crap. No more worth his time then a conversation with the likes of Shane these days. And certainly none of his god damned business. But as he looked outside, eyes skirting around the edges of the freshly turned earth that marked the spot where they'd laid the man to rest only a few hours before, that train of thought melted away as quickly as it had formed. The old man might have been sentimental, but he certainly hadn't been a fool. If he'd kept all this junk then it must have meant something. …At least to him. 

Besides, it wasn't his place to pass judgement over another man's affairs. Frustration be damned.

But as he made to pull out the small bundle of papers, something clinked in the bottom. And on impulse he fished it out. Squinting at the blinding glint as burnished gold met with the high afternoon sun. It was a wedding ring, small, thin, and delicate. A woman's then. – Wait..

He dropped the ring back into the box like he'd been burnt. Watching as it rolled off the half hazard bundle of junk and disappeared into the pile of bus stubs, tram tickets, and old gas receipts that coated the bottom. And in spite of himself, he swallowed hard. Realizing for the first time exactly what he'd stumbled across.

It was a memorial.

He scrubbed his hands across his face, digging his palms into the hollows of his eyes before sliding down to scratch his chin, blunt nails rasping against at least a few days worth of stubble as he rested his elbows against the rickety old table top. Eyes flicking from the contents of the little box to the small stand of trees and the unturned bow of earth where they'd buried him.

Well, shit.

The earth had been rocky, hard and unmalleable when he'd taken a shovel to it. All pebble strewn top soil and lingering patches of loam that only grew the deeper he dug. Hershel was right, this was good land. Even after a hundred and sixty years the dirt was still rich and tangy. Fertile. Land a man could be proud to call his own. It was hinging on dawn by the time the others trickled out of the farmhouse to watch. But for his part he hadn't said a word when Andrea had joined him. Exchanging nods and barely veiled looks into the bloody dawn as he'd shucked his vest and swung his arms down into the upstroke. Cleaving the thick top soil in two as if the dirt itself had done him some sort of disservice.

The old man hadn't deserved to go like that. …No one did.

He banished the memories, refusing to face the reeling images that threatened to topple over in his minds eye. Dwellin' on what was said and done didn't do anyone any favors, least of all himself. – Besides, the old man's problems were over, that much they could all take peace from.

He let his fingers thumb through the crinkled pages, taking in the elegant scrawl and torn off corners. Brows lifting in grudging surprise as he took in the dates. The old man had been at this for a long time, months before the first reports of the infection if memory served.

He'd over heard the man talkin' about his old lady once or twice back at the Quarry camp. Mostly to Andrea when he was dead set on proving some sort of point. But anyone with eyes could see that it was the way the man had talked about her that was the real kicker. The man hadn't just had a wife or a partner. He'd had love. Or at least the closest thing there was too it. He'd loved that woman, that much was as plain as day. And even back when the others had called the world 'good' and 'whole', that kind of devotion was a rare thing. His own folks were evidence enough of that.

In the home he'd been raised in, he'd learned early on that most people didn't get married for love. No matter what the preacher and the bible had to say about it. Love was just bullshit and empty words, but blood, brotherhood, and family? Now that was a different story. Merle had taught him that much.

But the thing was that Merle and his Mama's preacher had only been half right. Love was bullshit, but it existed for some all the same. And the old man and his woman had had it, the good old fashioned American dream. Hell, they'd probably had a life together that anyone in their right mind woulda' envied.

Strange how you could envy a man for something you didn't quite understand.

His hand trailed along the ragged edges, considering his options. He knew he should put it away, shove it back in to the cupboard and forget he'd ever seen it. But he didn't. He couldn't. Instead he leaned in, shuffling through the papers at random. His movements silted and awkward as his fingers ghosted across the brittle edges with undeniable care.

February 15th, 2011

It was your favorite day yesterday. I tried to celebrate it for you. I don't think I did it justice though. I hope you enjoyed the roses. Red and white remember? …Your favorites. Two times the love you used to say.

February 28th, 2011

It's been a month since you slipped away. They told me it would get easier. They told me that the anger and loss would eventually fade. And that only the love and memories would remain. ...They lied.

February 29th, 2011

A letter a day, that's what Father Markus said. I haven't been back to the church since the funeral. But he keeps showing up at the front door, even when I don't answer. - I'll give him one thing. He's damned persistent. I think I finally see why you liked him so much.

March 28th, 2011

It's been three months. I haven't managed a letter a day. I don't think I could. It hurts Irma. You not being here. - And for the first time in a long time, I can't help but admit it…

March 29th, 2011

This wasn't what we planned. Till death do us part remember? Well, I am still here. …Alone. Why? Why did you leave me here?

April 3rd, 2011

I visited you today. I said some things…some things that I regret. I'm sorry dear. God, I'm so sorry.

April 10th, 2011

I finally let Father Markus in. We talked about the weather. He was just as boring and long winded as I remembered. But halfway through coffee I thought about you and that funny little look you used to get when I'd talk back about him. I think I smiled for the time months.

April 17th, 2011

I miss you.

May 1st, 2011

I took the RV out for the weekend. The radiator hose put up a fuss halfway out of the suburbs. The engine is running a bit off, I think it's been sitting for too long.

May 2nd, 2011

It was definitely the radiator hose. I got the boys at the automotive shop to order me a new one. It should be here in a few months. Can you believe it? Apparently they only make those hoses custom now. Vultures. Remember when we bought it? Brand new with that sticky plastic wrap still clinging to the toilet seat? You sat on it by accident our first time out. Do you remember? You shrieked like a banshee and streaked out of the bathroom with your pants around your ankles! Bare bottomed and beautiful. Lord, I don't think I've ever laughed harder.

May 20th, 2011

The shop ordered the wrong damn hose.

May 24th, 2011

Some crazy stuff is going in the Far East right now. The government is keeping it all pretty hush-hush but if the reports are anything to go by there is some sort of fresh hell brewing up there. …I know, I know, when is there not? But this sounds different though. People up and disappearing, grave robbing, psychotic behavior, the works. God only knows what's going on up there these days.

May 25th, 2011

I was going through some of our old photo albums earlier today. I knocked down the stack in the hall closet looking for my hat. Ray wants to go fishing this weekend so I am getting all my gear together. Flipping through those old photos really reminded me of why I miss the sixties. Remember that purple, side slash skirt you used to wear? The one with the white beading on the hem? Christ, you were a knock out.

June 2nd, 2011

Something strange is going on in the news lately. They've been talking a lot about all the rioting that has been going on in Washington in the past week or so. - Some new age mumbo jumbo about socially cultivated diseases and teenagers occupying things. Anything but addressing the real problems facing this country huh? Don't even get me started on the damn debt ceiling. The president better get his head out of the sand and start delivering on some of his promises. The economy isn't going to fix itself for Christ sakes.

June 3rd, 2011

I don't think anyone on the news knows what they're talking about anymore. The riots are spreading. There was even a report that some of the protestors had crossed the border, both borders. Apparently part of Mexico City is on fire. Can you believe it? Canada is even considering closing its borders, and no one is talking about why!

June 4th, 2011

Something isn't right. I can't quite put my finger on it… I don't know what this is, but this doesn't make sense. It's spreading across the world. Fast. Japan, Britain, China, Russia, ...Europe…It makes no sense! For crying out loud, this isn't the bloody Arab Spring!

June 6th, 2011

Sue just told me that the Johnston's youngest girl, Jennifer I think, has gone missing walking home from school. Everyone is talking about the riots. They think it might even spread down here. I swear it's like the Cold War all over again. People are scared, on edge, but no one really knows why. Someone's made a royal mess of things, that's for damn sure.

June 15th, 2011

I just spent six hours watching the news. But for the first time in weeks I finally feel like I have a good handle on what might be going on. The government says it's some sort of virus. Like SARS. Can you believe it? – Same mess, different day, typical really.

June 17th, 2011

…They aren't riots. …They were never riots.

June 18th, 2011

I loaded up the RV with some food and water, just to be safe. The governor is sending in the National Guard to keep every one safe, but I don't know. I saw the news coverage. That live report they broadcasted from New York before the network cut away… That reporter.. All those people… Christ, I don't know dear... Something isn't right.

June 19th, 2011

Laugh all you want but I got down dad's old rifle. I'm probably going to end up shooting off my own foot. Hell, it's been years since I've even cleaned the damn thing. …Oh well. Better safe then sorry I guess.

June 20th, 2011

Things are getting bad here, really bad. They brought in the military to back up the National Guard. There are food shortages and the power grids aren't reliable anymore. We lost power yesterday and the grid is still down. There are reports that the infected have broken through the military blockades. ...I still don't want to believe what they are saying on the news. It can't be true. It has to be some sort of mistake! This kind of stuff just can't happen!

June 23rd, 2011

For the first time since you passed I'm glad you didn't live to see this. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. - We don't deserve this. I know humanity is flawed, young. But this? This is wrong. It's macabre and perverse. It is like the whole damned world has gone to hell and its taking us along with it.

June 24th, 2011

I lied. I am that selfish. The world has gone and ended, and I still wish you were here.

June 25th, 2011

Our town is burning. Our house. Your garden. That damn wooden trellis I nearly sawed my finger off making? It's gone. All of it. I held out for as long as I could. but I couldn't save it. I couldn't save anything.. There's no one left alive to put the fires out.

June 26th, 2011

I am on the road now, in the RV. Our luaus are still in here. Remember the ones we never got around to cleaning out after the last road trip? They're faded now, but still bright. They remind me of you.

June 27th, 2011

Things are bad. Everything has gone red. Sleep well my dear.

June 28th, 2011

I met two girls on the road today. Got them out of a tight spot after a bunch of… the infected swarmed their car. Their names are Andrea and Amy, two sisters from California. They'd been out on a road trip when the infection hit. They'd been trying to make it back but the roads are impossible. Chaos, car jams, accidents, and confusion. – It's crowded, but it's nice not being alone for a change. I'd almost forgotten..

June, 29th, 2011

The three of us are doing just fine. We are trying to stick to the back roads. Running low on food and water but it's nothing to worry about. We just need to find a safe place to lie low for a while. …Maybe Atlanta, they are saying it's safe there. A place to just sit tight and let this whole nightmare blow over.

June 30th, 2011

I left my flat head in the garage. Stupid, I know. You always were telling me to keep all my tools in one damn place.

July 1st, 2011

We met a man called Jim on the road yesterday. He was driving a beaten up tow truck smeared with blood and only god knows what else. His engine was on its last legs, trying to make a break for it down a jammed up section of the interstate. I don't know what he was thinking! It was practically suicide. I don't think he even saw us until I laid on the horn. For a minute I didn't think he was going to make it. They had him surrounded, breaking through the windshield and pushing through the glass to try and grab him. But he got away somehow, tumbling out the back and sprinting over to the rest stop we were parked at before we took off down the road to escape.. He has haunted eyes, but an honest face. He is with us now. - Thank god he had a flat head.

July 5th, 2011

We made our way to Atlanta. They promised on the radio that the military had a safe zone there, but we weren't there for more then two days before it got over run. Only a handful of us made it out. We're safe, don't worry. We are looking for a place to camp and ride this out. One of the other survivors, a police officer called Shane Walsh has banded everyone together, creating a community of sorts up in an abandoned Quarry just outside the city. I think we will be safe here, at least for now.

July 6th, 2011

I don't think this is going to blow over Irma. Everyone keeps saying that it is just a matter of time. But I don't know. The radios have stopped broadcasting. The others said that the televisions went out a week ago. Power too. Things seem to be going from bad to worse. But don't worry. We are safe, and we have each other. – I should probably get some rest; I have to relieve Daryl on watch in a few hours. Sleep well sweetheart. I am beginning to think that someday I might actually be grateful that you didn't live to see this. …Maybe.

August 10th, 2011

I love you. I feel like I didn't say it enough when you were here. So much went unspoken between us in the later years. So much was simply assumed. I hope you knew. I know you did. But I just wish we'd had more time. I wish that I'd-…

He closed the lid of the box with a brutal snap. Blunt fingers digging into the hollow juts of his cheekbones as he blew out a long breath of air. There were pages and pages in that box, some torn, folded and even crumpled. It was a collection that probably contained a record of everything that had happened since the Quarry camp and beyond.

But this wasn't meant for him, or them. It was meant for her, his woman, his wife. Hell, if he knew one thing for certain, it was that those letters weren't meant for anyone's pryin' eyes. Least of all his.

So with that in mind he palmed the box. Boot soles heavy and grating as he stalked across the dusty gravel drive, keeping the box close to his thigh; inconspicuous and half hidden against the filthy grain of his worn blue jeans. Deliberately ignoring Andrea when she looked down from her position on the roof of the RV, not giving her the opportunity to ask as he headed back across the field to finish packing up his gear. Making himself ready to move into the house with the rest of them as the afternoon sun slowly began to set.

Makin' like sardines was gonna be an understatement in that house tonight, that was for damn sure.

He waited until the others were asleep and it was his turn on watch before he stirred from the top of the RV, sliding down the metal ladder with careless grace as he crossed the yard to where he'd parked Merle's old Triumph.

He did it quickly, not one to stand on ceremony even in the best of times. Instead his knees hit the dirt beside the old man's grave in one fluid movement. Camp shovel making short work of the freshly broken soil as he dug down to where they'd laid him to rest, wrapped up in a white sheet and the clothes he'd died in.

Six feet under and not a single inch more..

It was only when he'd dug a small hole down to the man's side that he finally stopped, rolling the cricks from his neck as he dusted himself off. Wrinkling his nose as the scent of churned earth and the sweetness of decay threatened to pull him under. He grunted, forcing himself to school his breathing as he leaned down and retrieved the box, threading it through his calloused fingers as he hunched his shoulders reflectively.

…Should'a known better.

It wasn't just the scent of death. It was worse. It was a smell that had mixed together with the scent of the man himself. A mix-matched mess of long faded cologne, burnt engine grease, and just the smallest hint of Chanel number 5 that still clung to the RV's seat cushions. Her scent.. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand as he sank back down on his haunches.

Because it was then, with more care then he could ever remember using on so small a thing, that he gently placed the box at the man's side. Sliding it through the blood soaked blankets until it rested in the crux of the old man's arm. Hands still posed at his breast and against his heart, as he buried the only piece of his woman that older man had been able to save. Fulfilling the promise they'd made at the alter decades ago.

Till death… Separate, but never apart.

He smoothed the earth over the mound with the palm of his hand. Feeling the moist dirt smear and crumble between his fingers as he rearranged the circle of rocks and righted the small bottle of freshly picked flowers that rested at its head. He stayed silent for a long moment. Eyes catching on the tiny piece of red tissue paper that had been tied around one of the stems as he knelt down for the final time. …Resting his hand across the mound dirt for a long moment before he wiped his face and forced himself to straighten.

"Sleep well, brother."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is pretty much my closure fill. I needed something after "Judge, Jury, and Executioner" and I think I found it in this prompt. Now excuse me while I go cry all the buckets of tears in the world. …Dale my bebe!


End file.
